Confessions Of A Heart Broken Looney
by soraloveskairi159
Summary: Telling such a personal story is hard enough, but how do I tell you without you sending me to an asylum? How do I convey that, even though their existence went against the laws of nature, I loved them?" Title and idea suggested by Daddy's Little Cannibal.


**Wipe that surprised look off your face! I told y'all I'd be back! Sheesh. Maybe, after this, you'll learn to take what I say into consideration, no? **

**Author: the one and only Soraloveskairi159 :D**

**Summary: Telling such a personal story is hard enough, but how do I tell you without you sending me to an asylum? How do I convey that, even though their existence went against the laws of nature, I loved them? Takes place 3 years after New Moon, Chapter three.**

**Dedicated to: Well, I don't think I should dedicate this to anyone, since y'all didn't believe I'd be comin' back!**

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own of Twilight is that beaten, battered copy on my computer desk that haunts me day and night for not taking care of it better …**

-----Preface------

When you're screen opens to this page, it's no secret what you're looking for. You expect some snide remark or some comment that grasps your interest to lull you further into the story. You expect something professional sounding, or, in other words, something only an experienced author could come up with. Something that was so original, an entire story you wrote yourself and received an A+ on wouldn't even be considered to compare to this first mystifying sentence.

And, if the first sentence is _that _good, how will the rest of the story be? A work of art, slaved over by the best of artists, is somehow blended by these 'authors' so that they are no longer still pieces of art, but flowing and witty combinations of sentences, metaphors, analogies, and so on! What magicians these writers be, to take a piece of fantasy and turn it into written word!

Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm not some experienced author. I can't take a portrait on the wall and write reasoning behind it. I can't look at the Mona Lisa and come up with an explanation as to why she has no eyebrows. I can't look at a painting done by Salvador Dali and tell you why he was a seriously messed up dude.

I'm just a girl with a story. It's been three years that I've concealed this secret from the world, and, if I don't tell someone soon, I might just have a nutty.

But where do I start? After carefully analyzing the way my favorite authors began their stories, I can only come up with that they described the characters within the first few pages. I guess I could do that, but how original would that be?

Maybe I could tell you what's going on in the story. But that wouldn't be too smart of me. Once you know my story, my struggles, you're going to click the 'back' button on your browser. It's so terrifyingly degrading that you might actually click the 'Exit' button on the top of your screen, anything to escape the horror of what you've just read.

Well, guess what. I have no exit button. I have no un-do button. I can't clear the history and forget the dreadful things that I've experienced.

So take advantage of the fact that you can. Go on and click out of this story. I'm warning you right now.

Somehow, I feel I'm having less of an effect on you than that damn red button whom is always telling you not to push it, but you push it anyway. Is this really that tempting? That, because of the more I tell you to hide your faces from the angst of my experiences, the heart break of the ones I cared most for, you want to keep reading and figure out why I'm so insistent on your running away?

Or maybe you are still here, reading, because you want to understand my conditon. You fool. Once you understand my current predicament, the only thing you'll want to do is spit in my face. My tear soaked face. The same face that wasn't good enough to keep my love here with me.

Do you know how much I wish I could be you? To erase my past, and start over? But, then again, that is the same thing I'm fighting against. If I were to forget him completly, maybe all the hurt I feel would go away, and I'd be free to live my life. But what if it wasn't that easy? Despite the pain I feel now, I will admit freely that he and his family were the best things to happen to me. And, though their presence for that teeny year causes me agony now, I fear that if I let go of the true happiness I felt with them, I wouldn't feel happy ever again.

And how could I live with myself? I'd rather sit her and picture him in visions that did not do him justice than forget him completly. Even though those same visions caused me pain, I'd rather feel pain than the nothing at all that would surley follow my forgotten memories. Wouldn't you?

No?

Huh, maybe, if I were lucky enough, I would get caught in a freak accident involving circus clowns with elephants and hit my head, resulting in amnesia. Or, if I were really lucky, a semi-truck, filled to the rims with deathly toxins,'d hit me.

Because all of these things would be welcomed so much more than reliving the last 3 years of my life with complete strangers who don't give a hoot. So why am I doing this again?

Oh yeah. That pesky mental therapist who hasn't been getting any information out of me since I started these meetings. Well, it's not like I signed up for the therapy anyway. My so-called 'family' made me do it because they were 'worried about my well-being.'

Ah, humbug. I knew they didn't care. The only reason they signed me up to go to these sessions every Tuesday was because they wanted to know what was wrong with me, just like the mental therapist. Well, guess what. Just because you got me to write this, doesn't mean I'm going to tell you what happened.

Why won't I tell you? It's a secret.

And it's not my secret to tell.

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**There it is --- the preface for the first story I've written in the longest time. It feels so good to be back. :)**


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